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Updated: May 23, 2025
Overhead the branches overflowed into a canopy of crimson, which shut out the great real world and opened into a fairy world wherein only the untried feet of youth may tread and the fragile flowers of child-dreams bloom. The gates thereto are slight but strong, and only knowledge erects an impassable barrier.
Little child-dreams floated through her mind that the silver-faced moon would hang there above and light the world forever, for the moon was the soul of the god Purusha whose sacrificed body had created the world, and that she would ride forever in the arms of this fair-faced god, and that they were both of one caste, the caste that had as mark the sweet pain in the heart.
Child-dreams more vague and fragmentary than my animal ones; and yet more calm, and simple, and gradually, as they led me onward through a new life, ripening into detail, coherence, and reflection. Dreams of a hut among the valleys of Thibet the young of forest animals, wild cats, and dogs, and fowls, brought home to be my playmates, and grow up tame around me.
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